Insignificant Things
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Dale/Andrea (non-romantic), short. S1, Ep4 "Vatos." Scene Rewrite/embellishment. It was such an insignificant thing in this world, but he was glad that he could come through for her.


**AN: This is in a series of "shorts" that I'm doing for entertainment value as I rewatch some episodes. Some of them are interpretations/rewrites of scenes that are in each episode. Some are scenes that never happened but could have in "imagination land". They aren't meant to be taken seriously and they aren't meant to be mind-blowing fic. They're just for entertainment value and allowing me to stretch my proverbial writing muscles. If you find any enjoyment in them at all, then I'm glad. If you don't, I apologize for wasting your time. They're "shorts" or "drabbles" or whatever you want to call them so I'm not worrying with how long they are. Some will be shorter, some will be longer.**

 **This one is partially from the show and partially of my own creation/embellishment.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Dale wasn't entirely unaccustomed to coming into his R.V. to find either Andrea or Amy practically ransacking the place. Since he'd run into them on the highway and invited them to join him—feeling that it couldn't be safe for the two of them to be alone in the chaos that was surrounding them—they'd taken over the space as their home.

His home was their home. His possessions were their possessions. And, honestly, Dale wouldn't have it any other way.

Married to Irma for longer than most of the people at camp had been alive, Dale had always wanted a family. Their attempts to have children had only ended in heartbreak for both of them, though. And the R.V., home to him now, had never been a place that he'd been able to enjoy with his wife. The R.V., bought just before the cancer claimed her freedom and kept her from ever actually taking to the road with him, was a reminder, to some degree, that life didn't go as planned.

Since he'd found Andrea and Amy, though, it had felt _different_ to him. The sounds of them there, all day and every day, were sounds of life in a world that was swarming with death.

It was an unlikely situation, but he was glad that, if they were all going to be in this nightmare together, God or someone had seen fit to give him the "girls" to keep him company in the madness. He would, more than gladly, hand over anything he had to see either of them happy.

And he could tell that Andrea, at that moment, knew exactly what it was going to take to keep her happy.

"Wrapping paper?" She asked as he mounted the steps and entered the R.V. "Colored tissue? Anything?"

Dale laughed to himself. It was a ludicrous request in this world. He was used to being asked for things that might help them survive—not for things that he'd barely ever had a use for before the dead had taken to ambling about.

"Seriously?" He asked.

"How can you not have any?" Andrea asked.

Dale laughed to himself again.

Amy was everything he had ever imagined a daughter might be. She was sweet and quiet. She was soft-spoken and she rolled her eyes at him frequently enough that he felt that he'd become the post-apocalyptic father to a teenager. Andrea, on the other hand, was an entirely different kind of woman than her sister. She was a little bolder, a little brassier, and sometimes she reminded him as much of his wife as she did of any imaginary daughter that he might have created.

Sometimes he had to stop himself from going in either ridiculous direction and either slipping to call her _Irma_ or declaring to her that she was "acting just like her mother".

"Had I been informed of the impending apocalypse, I'da stocked up," Dale assured her.

But tomorrow was Amy's birthday. Andrea explained that to him and, even with everything that was surrounding them and the constant uncertainty with which they lived, she'd been ticking off dates on the calendar that he kept in the R.V. He'd simply assumed that, like him, she preferred to keep track of the time as it passed them by, but apparently there was a purpose behind her meticulous record keeping.

Amy's birthday was a day that, in some way, _had_ to be celebrated.

Andrea produced a necklace—a simple mermaid on a chain that would please the more whimsical Amy—that she'd picked up somewhere and declared with a great deal of exasperation that it was a gift. And, as Dale and everyone else in the world should know, you couldn't give a gift that was unwrapped. Even the world around them—and everything that it had to offer—was no excuse for such a stark ignorance of etiquette.

Dale sucked in a breath and put the necklace back in Andrea's hand. He curled her fingers over it and patted her affectionately—hoping to soothe her concerns with his touch. There was so much going on, and so much that could affect them at any given moment, that sometimes it helped to focus on the little, seemingly insignificant, things.

"Deep breath," Dale said. "I'm sure I'll find something here."

Andrea accepted that. She sucked in the suggested breath and moved to sit so that she could watch him, while he went to the bedroom of the R.V. to burrow through the drawers in search of anything that might work. Had Irma ever actually called the R.V. home, he had no doubt that there'd be plenty of that sort thing around. Like Andrea, Irma would have seen the need to be prepared for something like a last minute birthday, no matter where they were or what they were doing. Dale, however, was not so prepared.

Still, as he went through the drawers, he finally landed on something that would work. In one of the back drawers, a few odds and ends hanging out there that he'd tucked away without even thinking about it, he found one of the last gifts that Irma had given him. It was a set of cufflinks—something to mark his retirement—that he'd declared he'd never wear. He'd never have reason to wear them. After all, he was retiring and he was leaving the world of the three piece suits behind him.

He had worn them, though, once. He'd worn them, also keeping up with the etiquette that was so important to Irma—and now to Andrea—when he'd gone to say his goodbyes to his wife. He'd returned them to the small box they'd been packed in after the funeral and he'd put the box, along with a few other trinkets, into the R.V. to take with him on the road trip, even if he wasn't entirely sure why he'd packed them.

Under the cufflinks, wadded and crinkled from Dale's careless closing of the box, was a piece of tissue paper. Just one piece. Irma had used it to make the gift more attractive. It would serve its purpose again, now. Dale pulled the piece of paper free, ran his fingers over the cufflinks, and tucked the box back into its drawer before he walked toward Andrea and offered her the piece of paper.

"I think this should do," he said softly, still using the tone of voice he'd used to suggest that she breathe and try to calm herself.

Andrea looked at him like he was offering her diamonds or gold— or something equally as precious.

"You had some," she said, amazement shining through in her voice.

"Just one piece," Dale said. "But it should be enough."

"It's perfect," Andrea said. "Thank you!"

Dale smiled, pleased to see her eyes light up like they did over such a small offering. He accepted the quick hug that she offered him as payment. Then he nodded at her and patted her on the shoulder before he left the R.V. again to check on things around the camp.

"Crisis averted," he teased, hiding his pleasure over the fact that he'd been the one to solve something that, though truly a very insignificant thing, had been perceived to be such a great thing in the moment.


End file.
